


One Day Like This

by Baby_hime



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates, Mass Effect, Multi-Fandom
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humorous Ending, I think I'm funny but I'm probably not, Implied Sexual Content, Lime, Non-Explicit Sex, One Shot, POV Second Person, Puns & Word Play, Reader-Insert, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baby_hime/pseuds/Baby_hime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just your (a)typical Saturday morning/night with your special one. Nothing more, nothing less.<br/>I pinky swear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keaton, the Fluffball of Love

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a songfic, but it was inspired by this song:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ln9TZTTWsck  
> To get the full effect, I'd recommend you listen to it but...maybe Sarah Brightman isn't for everyone?
> 
> In unrelated-but-just-as-important news, Keaton is such a little fluffball of tsundere-flavored love, isn't he? You can keep your husbandos, people, my F!Avatar is going to fluffy heaven with her fluffy family! 0w0
> 
> And you know, I'm actually pretty pleased with how this came out and that's saying something considering I was half-asleep when I got the idea.  
> Anyway, please ignore my ramblings and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> I own nothing. Like, at all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody needs a Wolfskin friend. You're not "everybody." You're the one lucky enough to marry the fluffiest Wolfskin of them all. But will you get to enjoy it . . . ?

          The song of a lark drifted through the window, waking you from your light sleep.

_Figures_ , you thought, opening one eye and then the other. That was the third time this had happened this week.

          Groggily, and with some misgivings, you rolled onto your side, hearing the bed squeak ever so slightly as you did, to glance outside. The sun was just now peeking out from behind the horizon line, cutting through the darkness that shrouded your room. At the sight of this, you found your annoyance melt away, leaving in its place a smile as you brought the duvet up past your shoulders to keep warm. You were getting a front-row seat to one of nature’s best shows: The sunrise. And you didn’t want to miss a thing.

          Behind you, something stirred.

          You froze, eyes widening.

_What the hell was that_? you wondered.

          Your first instinct was to reach for your dragonstone where it lay on the nightstand but you never got the chance. Just as you were about to act on that instinct, a familiar arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you into an even more familiar body.

          “Thought you could get away, huh, [Name]?” a gravelly, masculine voice purred into your ear. “Sorry to disappoint you. Wolfskin mate for life.”

_Keaton_! you thought, a smile reappearing on your features, though it was now one of recognition and relief.

          “Keaton,” you said, trying to keep the smile out of your voice lest his ego grew too big for his britches.

          “Were you expecting someone else?” he asked, audibly stifling a yawn.

          “Do you like asking questions you already know the answer to?” you returned playfully.

          “A bit, yeah.”

          You bit your lip to suppress a chuckle. He was always like that and it never failed to amuse you. He didn’t need to know that, though . . . lest he grew too big for his britches. What you, on the other hand, needed was to remind him just who was in charge here, so you tried a different approach.

          “You’re a bad boy, Keaton,” you mock-admonished, reaching back to stroke his soft, fluffy ears. “I really should punish you.”

          The moment your fingers touched the fluff, Keaton’s grip on you tightened in anticipation of what was to come, causing you to smirk. He loved this more than he cared to admit, so you decided to indulge him. Gently, you ran your fingers back and forth, feeling the silky smooth texture against your skin. This elicited a content, distinctly pleased sigh from the wolfskin behind you. You had him right where you wanted him.

          Except you didn’t.

          “You mean like last night’s ‘punishment?’” Keaton eventually asked, responding to your earlier statement. He sounded a bit out of breath and was definitely challenging your conversational dominance. “‘Cause I don’t think that ended like you intended.”

          A blush crept up on your face. He was right, it hadn’t. That isn’t to say you hadn’t liked where it went. You did. You just _hated_ losing. You also hated it whenever he rubbed his (many) victories in. With that fueling you, you decided to show your displeasure to the wolfskin by ceasing your ministrations of his ears. Not two seconds later, a disappointed huff blew past yours. He knew what you were doing and why. You smirked once more and, retracting your arm, laced your fingers with the ones Keaton had over your stomach.

          Then, hoping to change the subject, you said, “You know, I never pictured you a likes-to-watch-the-sunrise kind of guy.”

          Keaton seemed willing to let it go.

          Chuckling, he said, “I’m not. More partial to the moon, myself. But . . . if you _really_ want a wolfskin pillow while you watch, I, uh, guess I can oblige you. Not like I have anything to do for a couple o’ hours anyway. . . .”

          That was Keaton’s way of saying “I like spending time with you.” You knew this better than anyone so you merely rolled your eyes and grinned to yourself at his perpetual silliness. He didn’t even seem to realize that you had not even asked him to stay — he had suggested it, himself. You didn’t see it as worth pointing out, though. Things like this happened all the time since the two of you had gotten married.

_Married_ , you repeated. Honestly, it was still hard to believe. Especially considering the strange circumstances you had met him in. . . .

          The pleasant program you were watching, called your memories, faced a brief interruption when Keaton shifted his weight, probably in an effort to get comfortable, and in doing so pulled the duvet down a little. Your eyes immediately fell onto your now-visible wedding ring, a beauty that did not quite fit Keaton’s standard definition of “treasure” although it definitely fit yours. Rays of sunlight danced upon it, glittering . . . not unlike Camilla’s happy-tear-filled eyes at your wedding. And Hinoka’s for that matter. And Elise’s. And Sakura’s. Even Keaton’s, however much he vehemently denied it.

          And on the topic of Camilla . . . you had not expected her to be so . . . supportive of your choice of partner. Not after her initial reaction when you had confided in her — looking like a kettle that was about to boil over. At least she hadn’t tried to kill him in some horrific way like she had once implied she would to any man whose gaze dared to linger on you.

          But of course, you should have known she wouldn’t let it go so easily.

          Camilla, being Camilla, had “accidentally” spilled the beans and suddenly all your siblings knew. And then they (primarily Xander and Ryoma) wanted to have “the talk” with the wolfskin in question. Of what had happened you knew nothing. One evening they had whisked him away and an hour later they had come out of their venue of choice looking oddly chummy . . . even Keaton, although he _had_ developed the strange habit of cowering at the sight of all your elder siblings. . . .

          In the end, when it counted, your siblings — along with everyone else who was important to you — had been happy for you on your special day. Each and every one of them. That was all that mattered. It had been hard to hold back happy-tears of your own that day . . . and that was not something you ever thought you’d feel.

          At the moment, though, you felt something else that was just as hard. The difference was, it was fleshy and it was poking your backside. You immediately blushed, knowing just what it was.

          Rolling over to face your husband, to which he cocked a brow, you teased, “I didn’t know you liked sunrises _this_ much. Maybe we should watch them more often. . . .”

          Instantly, Keaton unlatched himself from you and recoiled away as if you were a hot iron that had burned him. That wasn’t the reaction you had expected and it certainly wasn’t the one you had wanted.

          “I-it’s not like that!” he stammered once he had deemed himself a safe distance from you. “It’s just . . .”

          “Just . . . ?” you asked, lowering your eyelids to hide an amused glint as you crawled closer, like a predator after her prey.

          Keaton swallowed hard, scooting away. Looking anywhere but at you, he said, “You know . . . being a male wolfskin?”

          You quirked a brow, now only a couple of inches away from him.

          Still refusing to meet your eye, still bright red, and still trying to keep some semblance of his dignity, he tried to explain.  “I-it happens in the mornings.”

          “Every morning?” you inquired innocently, even as you scooted so close that your nose almost touched his.

          Keaton opened his mouth to answer, but that was when you seized the opportunity to taste the spoils of battle — for, obviously, you had won nature’s oldest one. Leaning in, you placed a relatively chaste kiss on Keaton’s lips. Then you pulled back, watching for a reaction all the while, waiting for a signal to continue or to stop. You hoped it would be to continue.

          Keaton’s bare, beautifully sculpted chest was heaving and he looked at you with eyes veiled by desire. He also looked like he was about to say something but what came out instead was a yelp of surprise. Then, he was gone.

          Your eyes widened. Where had he . . . ?

          “Ugh . . .” you heard him groan.

          Peering over the bed, you saw Keaton lying flat on his back . . . sans clothes. Your brows flew up in surprise. Keaton slept nude? You’d never noticed before. . . . But, you realized with a mischievous grin, you certainly didn’t mind.

          You lingered to admire the view for just a second longer before you pounced. Landing on the flustered-once-more wolfskin, you straddled his waist with your legs. Not two seconds later, you felt something thump against your backside. You smirked, as was apparently a habit of yours whenever you were in your husband’s company. As much as Keaton tried to deny it, he was obviously enjoying this. Even more obvious was the fact that he wanted more.

          You _supposed_ you could oblige him. . . .

          “[Name]?” Keaton said uncertainly, biting his lip, the canvas of his face painted with an expression of longing.

          “Keaton,” you returned, bringing your smiling face closer to his, never breaking eye-contact.

          Then it happened. Keaton locked lips with you, or you locked lips with him. You couldn’t remember which and, frankly, you couldn’t care less. Not while tiny, muffled sounds of pleasure dripped from both of you. Now and again you felt his tongue probing your lower lip, asking for permission to enter. Obedient as ever. You liked that and were more than happy to let him in.

          His taste was unique, unlike any you had ever known; some amalgamation of what had to be natural wolfskin wildness and a distinct electricity that sent tingles down your spine. You craved it. And then — gods above! — there it was. It was no cliché to say that you melted into the kiss.

          But all good things had to end sometime. Eventually, the two of you broke apart for much-needed air. As you caught your breath, you eyed Keaton both lovingly and longingly. The expression was not lost on him. The same message was reflected in both of your eyes: Neither one of you would be able to start your respective daily schedules until sweet release was had. So a question lay before you. How exactly should this go down?

          Keaton seemed to have an idea. Tentatively, as if he expected you to stop him and thus giving you plenty of opportunities to, his hands went to the hem of your nightgown — the one had Camilla lent you. Slowly, he began to undo the ribbons holding the whole thing together until it fell past your chest, revealing you to him. Keaton, looking like he was marveling at a goddess in all her glory, was halfway to touching your newly exposed flesh when . . .

          Suddenly, the door swung open, nearly giving both of you a heart attack.

          A female voice shrieked.

          A male, accented one cried, “Milady?!”

          Both you and Keaton turned to see your red-faced maid, Felicia, covering her eyes in the doorway as your angry butler, Jakob, stormed in.

          Keaton immediately bolted out from under you and, grabbing his pants from where he had tossed it last night, darted out of the room, knocking Felicia aside. Jakob was hot on his tail . . . literally. He had grabbed one of the torches from its hallway holding just seconds before.

          Hastily tying your dress back together to preserve your modesty, you dashed over to the doorway and stared dumbstruck at the last glimpse of your husband and butler that you saw: Them running down the hall, their cries of fear and anger, respectively, utterly incomprehensible but loud enough to wake the whole castle.

          In other words, just another Saturday morning.

          Shaking your head to clear it, you remembered Felicia on the floor. Turning to her, you said, “They’re gone, Felicia . . . and I’m decent.”

          “Whew!” she exhaled in relief, opening her eyes. You offered her your hand, which she accepted, then helped her up. She smiled. Then, apparently, seized by the mental image of what she had just seen earlier, she winced. “I-I don’t mean to pry, milady, but . . . Keaton sleeps . . . like . . . like that?”

          “I guess so,” you answered. “I never noticed. Although . . . what I’m more interested in is . . . he doesn’t wear underwear?”

          Felicia groaned. “Now I’ll never be able to talk to him without seeing that image in my head ever again. Thanks, milady.”

          “You’re welcome,” you replied absently. Then, as if coming out of a reverie, you said, “And don’t worry, I’ll handle them," you sighed, ". . . as usual.”

          “Thanks, milady.”

 

/ Later \

 

          Your idea to invite Jakob back to your room for a one-on-one master-to-servant heart-to-heart was not going as planned. . . .

          “He was assaulting you, milady!”

          “How is that even remotely possible when _I was on top of him_?”

          Silence reigned, but not for long. The usual storm of insults was incoming.

           “He’s an _animal_! A monster!”

          “Jakob, for the love of _gods_. . . .”

          “He needs to be put down!”

          “ _Jakob_! I know you don’t like him but he _is_ my husband!”

          Unfortunately, at that moment, the door opened and in came trouble herself.

          “I know I said you can tell your big sis anything, [Name], but could you to at _least_ wait until I get up? A lady needs her beauty sleep, after all. . . .”

          Before you could even formulate a response, Jakob had spoken.

          “Lady Camilla! The mutt was attempting to assault Lady [Name]!”

          “Was he?! Well, forget what I was said earlier. I’m glad you woke me up. Don’t worry, [Name] . . . I’ll handle him. A good neutering is what he needs. Now, where is my axe?” She turned to Jakob. “Jakob, would you mind assisting me?”

          “Of course, milady. Thank you, milady.”

          No longer alone in his cause, Jakob bowed Camilla out before exiting himself, shutting the door behind him and leaving you to stare at it in disbelief.

_Those two are absolutely unbelievable_ , you thought.

          Shaking your head, you sat down on the edge of your bed, wondering what to do next. Things were looking grim. You weren’t the only one in that boat. Keaton’s head popped out from your closet door.

          “Are they gone?” he asked.

          “For now,” you replied, glancing up at him. At least he was wearing pants, if nothing else.

          “And then?”

          “And then, Keaton season is open.”

          Keaton made his way over to you. Once there, he sat down beside you, watching you. Through your peripheral vision, you watched him. In this way, a couple of minutes passed by. As it did, the weight of the situation seemed to intensify until it became a load you knew you could not bear.

          Rather than sit there and wait for an idea to strike like lightning, you turned to Keaton and asked, “What do you want to do? They sound serious.”

          You quickly realized asking him was a mistake.

          “Well,” Keaton began, a wolfish grin taking over his face as he snaked an arm around you, pulling you close, “we _could_ just finish what we started. . . .”

          You blinked. He smirked. You blinked again. His smirk was still there.

          “You’re absolutely unbelievable,” you told him.

          “That’s not a no,” he pointed out.

          You looked away, trying not to smile. It _wasn_ ’ _t_ a “no.” Recognizing that look, Keaton pressed a kiss onto your cheek. Then, it was right back to where the two of you had left off. Interestingly, neither Jakob nor Camilla, during their search of the entire castle grounds, seemed to realize their quarry was having his daily time of his life. But what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

          Right?

          Right!


	2. Garrus, Overloading Hearts Since 2183

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You (Commander Shepard) and Garrus like screwing with each other. You also like screwing each other but that's neither here nor there . . . or is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garrus is love. Garrus is life. And Shakarian is the OTP.  
> Also, random aside: I never even believed in OTPs until Shakarian. NOW I'M A BELIEVER!
> 
> Inspired by the Sarah Brightman song "One Day Like This"
> 
> I own nothing. Like, at all.

The rich, earthy aroma of an exotic coffee blend woke you from your light sleep.

          Eyes still closed, you inhaled deeply, drinking in the pleasant scent as it floated over to where you lay. A dreamy smile decorated your face.

 _Now that’s a fine way to wake up_ , you thought, checking a yawn as you stretched your limbs. Unhurriedly, you opened one eye, then other . . . before sitting up suddenly in fright at what you saw around you.

          You weren’t in your bed in the Captain’s Quarters on the Normandy.

          You weren’t even in a bed.

          Or the Normandy, for that matter.

          You were lying on a couch with a thin blue blanket spread over your jumpsuit-clad form in what seemed to be — you looked around, trying to gauge the place — an upscale apartment on the Presidium. At least, it looked like the Presidium. The giant flat screen TV in front of you, coupled with the mini bar to your right said that much. This notion was backed up by what you saw to your left: the outside world, revealed to you by drawn shutters. From them, simulated sunlight poured in, occasionally blocked by skycars zooming by, their speed-induced whistles muted by the seemingly soundproof glass.

 _Definitely the Presidium_ , you thought.

         That revelation brought some peace to your mind, as did the recollection that you of all people had nothing to fear here, but it didn’t answer the most important questions of all. Where was your crew? Your ship? How did you get here? What had happened last night? And why did this place feel so . . . familiar?

 _I’m sure as hell gonna find out_ , you decided, throwing the covers off and standing up.

          That was a mistake.

          Waves of nausea instantly crashed into you as black dots specked across your vision, forcing you back down onto the sofa like a swaying ship forced to dock amid monsoons. Wincing, you hoped this ordeal would pass quicker than those seasonal storms. Unfortunately, it didn’t. The nausea soon gave way, but to an almost tribal pounding in your skull that amplified even the minor tick of the nearby analog clock — which you only just now noticed was there — into an unbearable blast of noise.  Fortunately, that was a clue you recognized even in this state: your old frenemy alcohol had clearly been involved in whatever had transpired last night. Unfortunately, again, that only made everything worse. It opened a Pandora’s Box of possibilities as to how you ended up here. How were you going to explain this to Garrus?

          Another wave of nausea washed over you at the thought of telling your turian boyfriend.

 _Ugh_ , _I’ll_ . . . _handle that later_ , you told yourself, resigned to recline and hope for the best. You closed your eyes.

          As you sat there, capable of nothing but counting the increasingly irritating ticks of the clock while you waited for the black dots to leave you, by chance you noticed a periodic flash of light through your eyelids. It was almost as irritating as the clock. Opening your eyes, you the saw an orange light blinking up at you from your left arm. Your omni-tool arm. That meant one thing, you had an unread message.

 _That’s odd_ , you thought.

          It was. You were the type to never leave any message unread. Not even spam. That left only one possibility. It was recent. Did that mean it could shed some light on your predicament? Probably not, you supposed, as that was a bit of a stretch, the kind of which only found in old novels. Still, you weren’t the type to leave any stone unturned. That and you hated sitting around doing nothing. Especially in a place like this.

          Scarcely daring to hope, you woke your omni-tool out of sleep mode, brought up your inbox, and saw not one but two messages.

 _Weird_ , you thought.

          Determined to put this matter to rest, you opened the first one. What it contained was not what you expected. It went:

 

          “ _Hey Shepard_ ,

 _Just wanted to let you know I’m going out for coffee. And before you ask yes I_ ’ _ll get one for you. Don_ ’ _t worry I know what you like. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn_ ’ _t_?”

 

Boyfriend?

          The word alone sent an endless stream of likelihoods through your mind, each more terrible than the last. Just what had happened last night? Worse, how were you going to explain this to Garrus?

 _I am so dead_ , you told yourself, wincing instinctively as you pictured your turian boyfriend’s reaction. He would certainly be upset . . . to put it mildly. Upset enough to call things off with you? Probably. He was an all or nothing kind of guy.

           Your head fell into your hands as panic began to settle in, and as it did, the once pleasing fragrance of fresh coffee in the air twisted into something putrid. Maybe you didn’t know how all this had come about, but you knew this: you wanted nothing this mystery man had to offer.

          With renewed purpose you raised your head, a determined, almost desperate, grimace crossing your features. You wanted to get out of this place. Now. You had to. Headache or no, nausea or no. Reaching to dismiss the message and close your omni-tool, you happened to glance over the last two lines in the message that you had not seen earlier. They changed everything. They went:

 

          “ _Love,_

 _Garrus_ ”

 

          For five full seconds you stared at those lines, dumbstruck.

         Garrus? As in, Garrus Vakarian? The turian sharpshooter? Suddenly every piece of the puzzle started clicking into place and making sense.

          This was _your_ apartment in the Tiberius Towers on the Presidium, a gift from Admiral Anderson. Garrus was the one out buying you coffee — or, by the smell of it, he already had. And after all this you needed it, your throbbing head so indelicately reminded you. But not yet.

          Sinking back into the cushiony headrest as if it were a pillow, and putting your omni-tool back into sleep mode, you let out the breath you didn’t even notice you were holding. In all your time as an Alliance marine, as a Spectre, as a woman brought back from the dead, you had never before felt so . . . afraid. That was the word, wasn’t it? The thought of betraying Garrus, even by accident, after everything the two of you had been through? You bit your lip, suppressing a shiver. At least it was over. These thoughts were interrupted by your omni-tool’s telltale blinking. Remembering the other unread message, you booted your omni-tool back up and opened the message, seeing a line of text from Garrus that read:

 

          “ _Hey remember when I said I know what you like? I meant that in an_ ‘ _if you know what I mean’ way_. _Sorry ~~notsorry~~_.”

 

          For five full seconds you stared at those lines, dumbstruck again before you rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. Only Garrus would do this. Maybe that was one of the many reasons you loved him, you supposed. Closing your inbox and sending your omni-tool to sleep for the final time, you caught another whiff of the coffee. He really did know what you liked . . . maybe that was yet another reason. That aside, something dawned on you. Wasn’t it odd how a scent from the kitchen, so far from where you were, could reach you?

 _What is he doing_ , you wondered, _fanning the scent this way so I’ll come over_?

          If he was, it worked.

          Standing up, the first thing you noticed was that you could. You took a few tentative steps to test yourself. One . . . then two . . . then three. . . . Everything checked out. With that done, a mischievous smirk spread across your face. Teasing you with the scent of your favorite coffee, was he? That deserved a little retaliation. Turnabout _was_ fair play. . . .

         Carefully, you made your way over to the corner wall and lined yourself up with it like you did with cover during a firefight. The motion was second nature to you, you hardly noticed it. All you knew was that it was time to get the lay of the land.

          For as far as you could see, your apartment was as empty as a liquor bottle after a night of hard partying . . . until the divide between the kitchen and the living room. There you saw Garrus seated on one of the bar stools, dressed in his flatteringly form-fitting casual attire. A steaming mug of what had to be coffee rested within his reach, ignored for the moment in favor of his omni-tool which had his full attention.

 _Good_ , you thought, _now_ ’ _s the perfect time to move_.

          Yet you didn’t, even though you knew you ought to. Something about what you saw before you rooted you to the spot, unable to move, unwilling to try, and unconsciously admiring the view. Not the one that sent blood rushing to your cheeks. No, the other one. The big picture you could only now see.

          Never once had you pictured Garrus doing something as normal as coming out in the morning to drink coffee. Or read the news — if indeed that was what he was doing. It got you to thinking, was this what a post-war galaxy would look like? Was this the sight you’d see?

          With a contemplative frown, you imagined a day without anyone trying to kill you or Garrus on a regular basis. Imagined a day without nearly frying your bio-amp. Imagined a day without a need for calibrations.

 _That last one just might be the end of Garrus_ , you mused, amused.

          In all seriousness though, suddenly saw what you didn’t before, what had always been nothing more than just beyond your reach: _this_ was what you were fighting for. One day like this. The kind you never thought you’d have, the kind you never thought you’d deserved. And yet here it was, a taste of what waited after the end. For you. For Garrus. For everyone you knew. For everyone you didn’t.

          As you stood there, lost in thought, suspended in time, a smile spread over your face. Not the sadistic kind you wore into battle, not even the reactionary kind you gave to all of Garrus’ antics. A real smile. The kind you didn’t know you still had in you.

          But all good things had to end.

          Those were your very thoughts as the warm, fuzzy feeling faded away. Almost immediately you missed it, but perhaps not as much as you could have. Specifically because it reminded you what you had come this way for.

          Seizing the opportunity while you still could, you snuck like a shadow from your hiding place towards Garrus’ distracted figure.

          Ten meters to go . . . and he was still unaware.

          Five meters. . . and you felt bad for him. Almost.

          A breath away . . . and you stopped short, a thought occurring to you.

          Having been so focused on doing this, you never took the time to figure out what exactly “this” involved.

          “So . . . how are you going to play this, Shepard?”

         From where you stood behind your boyfriend, poised for who-knows-what, you found yourself wondering the same thing. . . . You also found yourself wondering why your internal monologue sounded distinctly like—

 _Oh dear_ , you thought, face flushing.

          He knew?

          “Well? I’m waiting,” said a voice that could only belong to Garrus.

          He knew.

          Your stomach froze over while your face burned. This was embarrassing. In a feeble effort to preserve what remained of your dignity, you first took a deep breath to calm yourself and then, adopting a look of feigned nonchalance, took a seat beside your boyfriend, hoping to put this behind you.                                                                           

          Naturally, as this was Garrus, that was not an option.

          As soon as you were seated, Garrus promptly closed his omni-tool and glanced over at you, eyes (or at least the one not obscured by his visor) glittering in amusement. You were sure he’d be smirking if only he could.

         “Well, Shepard,” he began, putting an arm around your shoulder, “I think we both now know why you’re not an Infiltrator. You’ve got all the subtlety of Jack plus the tactical prowess of an inexperienced Vanguard.”

          To that you stared stoically ahead, debating how you should respond. Garrus was a veritable master of the verbal battlefield, though, and the longer you waited for that lightning-bolt called inspiration the more it looked like defeat so you said the first thing that came to mind:

          “[Name], you mean.”

          Silence immediately followed, coming to rest on you as a pressure lifted from your shoulder. Garrus had withdrawn his arm.

          Not a split-second later, you heard him say: “Right. Sorry. _[Name]_.”

          His tone was as dry as the Sahara. You had to repress a smirk at that. Clearly you had gotten under his skin . . . exoskeleton . . . whatever. You had the upper hand and the way you obtained it disappointed him. As if that fact wasn’t made obvious enough by the lack of physical contact and his aforementioned tone, Garrus’ following words dropped any semblance of subtlety.

          “Spirits! With all this deep, _meaningful_ conversation—” you felt the evil eye on you even though you couldn’t see it “—I almost forgot to tell you. Your coffee’s waiting. Don’t let it get cold, tastes like crap that way.”

 _Yep_ , you thought, no longer able to keep back that smirk, _definitely disappointed_.

          Still, your response wasn’t a cheap distraction. Garrus’ habit of referring to you by last name was a problem he had sworn to address upon his return to the Normandy. Needless to say, this was a usual going for him. And it didn’t look like it was going to get any better any time soon.

          About that coffee, you supposed Garrus had a point. You’d spent too many long nights working with forgotten mugs not to know it. But something told you this was a classic Garrus-patented trap waiting to be sprung. And as being the butt of one of his elaborate pranks was not on the day’s agenda, you elected to utilize your classic gambit: wait it out. If he was up to something, he’d show his true colors soon enough. You just needed to be patient.

          Resting your arms on the pleasantly cool counter-top stone, and your chin on your arms, you elected to let the silence envelope you. From the first few seconds when your eyes flitted over the finer details of the wooden cabinets to the last ones where they honed in on patterns resembling distorted faces in the stone counter-top, the whole thing screamed one word: boring. Patience was a virtue you obviously didn’t have. Or want to have, now that you knew what it entailed. In fact, you were so desperate for something to happen that you began considering Garrus’ innocence up until your peripheral vision revealed his sky-colored eyes pinned on you in curiosity.

          That was a reddest red flag you’d ever seen. You seriously debated trying your hand at ‘patience’ once more before remembering that snarky back-and-forth was a cornerstone in this relationship and that he enjoyed it as much as you did, even when he insisted he didn’t. You decided to be yourself.

          “Shepard-watching a new pastime, _Vakarian_?” you asked, purposefully emphasizing your use of his last name as you turned your head in his direction so as not to miss his reaction.

          Garrus groaned good-naturedly, catching on quick.

          “You never let me live anything down, do you?” he asked. “I said I was sorry. . . .”

          He trailed off, reaching for his mug as if to remind you of yours. If that was indeed his intention it worked, though probably not in the way he had hoped. Through that one action, you saw just how you get your coffee and avoid whatever it was that Garrus had in store for you.

          “You’re sorry, huh? Prove it,” you said, sitting back up with a Cheshire-cat grin on your face.

          “How . . . ?” he asked, taking a cautious sip as he eyed you warily. He knew that grin too well.

          You pouted, wanting to say such suspicion was unnecessary but your track record of saying outlandish things, nearly choking him on laughter or shock or both, said otherwise. This time wasn’t all that much different.

          “Go get me my coffee. Chop chop.”

          Garrus quirked a brow-plate in disbelief. “Really, Shep—[Name]?  You’re biotic. Can’t you just—” He made a sweeping gesture with his free hand “—make it happen?”

          “Garrus Vakarian,” you began in your best faux-serious voice, “biotics require . . . let’s call it . . . ‘fuel.’ And I’m running on empty. How do you think this is going to go down if I tried to Pull it here?”

          Garrus put his mug down, a pensive cloud hanging over him as he considered your words, one soon replaced by a look of consternation. You wondered what he was imagining, each possibility more humorous to you than the last.

          “Fine,” he eventually said, sighing. “I’ll get it. But don’t get used to this. I’m not your butler, I’m your boyfriend.”

          “Yeah, among other things,” you returned, smirking. You were a sore winner.

         Garrus never responded to that. Instead, rising from his seat, he strode over to the island where he had left your coffee. You watched him do this but did not really see him. Instead, you found yourself noticing something. Garrus walked with a catlike tread, nimble and silent against the tile. And he did it so effortlessly. Unlike you, apparently. . . .

          “ _Ahem_.”

          You started, only then seeing Garrus standing right beside you, coffee in hand and a glint in his eyes. In hindsight, that was not a good sign, but at the time you were so focused on reaching for the mug and muttering a “thanks” that his next action took you by surprise. He withdrew the mug from your reach.

          “Hey!” you protested, trying unsuccessfully to reach it from your seat. “That’s mine!”

          “Yeah,” he said, keeping it well out of your grasp, “for a price.”

          “For a price,” you repeated blankly, stopping your efforts. This was his idea of payback?

          “Yeah.”

          He sounded like he wanted to hug himself.

          You nearly chuckled at the thought but instead said, “Oh, fine. Name it.”

         With his mandibles flicking in barely-contained excitement, Garrus leaned in close and said, almost conspiratorially, “A kiss would do.”

          Upon hearing this, you stared slack-jawed at Garrus for a whole second before mirthful laughter escaped you. Neither of those actions fazed the turian beside you in the slightest.

          Once your laughter had subsided, you set your half-lidded eyes on your boyfriend and grinned, teasing, “I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Vakarian.”

          “Well, _Shepard_ ,” he replied, pausing meaningfully, “I study the subject like I’m back in primary school.”

          Silence followed.

          Then you said, “Ugh, way to kill the mood, Garrus.”

          “. . . Sorry. Didn’t mean to.”

          He said it as he laid your mug down, his tone and expression earnest enough that you were compelled to believe him. He was a terrible liar and it showed when he fancied himself a smooth operator. Adorkable was how he came across every time. In all honesty, though, that was just what you liked best. . . . This train of thought came to a screeching halt when you noticed Garrus was speaking again:

          “So, uh . . .” he began as nonchalantly as he could though his every emoting feature betrayed his anticipation, “is it too late to have that kiss . . . ?”

          Affably, you rolled your eyes. Persistent was practically his middle name. Technically you didn’t have to comply as the mug was now safely within your reach, but as he was your boyfriend and he _had_ gone out of his way to purchase and fetch the coffee to you, you supposed you could humor him. . . . Just this once.

          Idly brushing a stray strand of hair out of your face, you leaned in toward the waiting turian, closing your eyes and pressing a soft peck into what is best called his mouth. You lingered for a moment, enjoying the closeness and feel of him against you, but when you finally withdrew a disappointed huff blew past you.

          “That’s . . . well, it’s not bad,” he said, clearly holding back on your behalf (to which you pouted), “but I was hoping for something a little more like this. . . .”

          With no more warning than that, Garrus’ arms slunk around you, reeling you in and against him before the hard plates of his mouth crashed into your soft lips. Your eyes widened as the sudden impact made you inhale sharply, detecting a delicious spicy-sweet scent in the air. His cologne, maybe? You had no time to ponder it, for soon you felt a warm, wet pressure probing your lips. Ever the gentleman, he was asking for permission to enter, permission you were only too eager to give. Not two seconds later and your eyes were shut as his tongue wrestled fervidly with yours, affirming that he tasted as good as his scent proclaimed. There was no denying his skill — the shivers running up and down your spine coupled with the tingling deep inside you attested to that.

          To be fair, the latter was probably more incoming allergic reaction than desire at play. But it was hard to notice it once heat began to pool in your nethermost regions, egged on by Garrus’ wanderlust-filled hands which seemed eager to map out every nuance of your body’s landscape. As nothing worse happened, you chose to simply bask in the sensations he was giving you. It was hard not to. That scent, that spicy-sweet, intoxicating scent, his scent, was addictive. . . .

 _God_ , you thought, melting into the kiss, _if only he could be closer_. . . .

          Instinctively, your hands wandered across his back — carapace, really — gripping at the fabric of his clothing with the kind of need only he could stir up in you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you remembered something you had once read about turian pheromones and the way they affected their mates but the quiet little purr-like rumbles starting to come from Garrus were far more important. They meant that just like you, he was enjoying this, as did the slowly stiffening _something_ you felt pressing against your innermost thighs, making you squirm with delight.

          At that moment Garrus broke away from you, panting lightly. You opened your eyes. A look of love, longing, and mild embarrassment was on his face when he spoke moments after.

          "You . . . don’t have to continue, you know,” Garrus told you. “The price . . . ah . . . consider it paid.”

          “Yeah?” you replied, breathing just as hard. “And what if I . . . want to make a down payment for a . . . a future debt?”

          Garrus’ eyes lit up like candles in the darkest night at those words.

        Trying to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice, and failing fantastically, he said, “Then how about we take this somewhere more comfortable?

          Riding the high of his pheromones, you were only too willing to comply.

          Garrus offered you his hand for support as you slid off the bar stool and it was with that same hand that he guided you in the direction of the nearby living room, the one with the grand piano. Once at the couch near the crackling fireplace, he released you and seated himself like a king on his throne, though with legs spread far wider, and more inviting, than any king’s. His expression unsubtly asked you, his queen, to take a seat. You knew just which one you wanted to take. . . .

          Climbing up, facing Garrus, you placed your knees at either side of your turian throne, playfully swatting away his hands when he tried to grip your hips and pull you down.

          “Ah-ah,” you said, smirking as you were always wont to around him. “I’m in charge, now.”

          “But—”

          “My game, my rules, Vakarian.”

         Mandibles clicking in frustration, Garrus gave you a petulant look as he made one more feeble attempt, which you swiftly stopped, before he laid his hands elsewhere, surrendering to your whims. At last confident he would leave you to your own devices, you set to work, gripping the headrest of the seat for support and easing yourself down over his lap, stopping only when you felt a cloth-covered hardness graze against you.

         The sensation pulled an unwilling purr from Garrus. You bit your lip at the sound, your pheromone-addled mind resisting the temptation to unzip your jumpsuit, tear off his pants, and spear yourself on his “reach” there and then.

          Garrus’ restraint was not half as strong.

          In blatant violation of your previous warning, he grasped the fabric of your jumpsuit and lowered your form onto his, grinding against you. Instead of retaliating, you watched with a kind of amused wonder. His flesh, unlike his exoskeleton, was so sensitive you couldn’t help but take pity on him. Not that it didn’t feel good for you. It most certainly did. . . . But unfortunately, at that moment, you were pulled back into reality when a silver light began to flash from your arm. That meant trouble. Garrus noticed it too.

          Though never stopping his lewd actions, Garrus asked, “Why is—?”

          “EDI,” you replied, cutting him off. To his questioning look, you explained, “I color-coded all messages from her since she actually _checks_ to see if her texts have been read.” You paused. “I . . . really should answer.”

          “It can’t wait?” he grumbled, gripping you possessively as if expecting EDI to steal you away at any moment.

          “It could, but then she might come over and ask twenty more questions.”

          Garrus released you so fast one might think you were on fire.

         Using this newfound freedom, you came to sit by his side and it was from there that you woke your omni-tool and opened your inbox — Garrus suggestively stroking your thigh and nipping at your neck all the while. Barely paying attention to its contents as you were more than a little distracted by your boyfriend, you skimmed through it:

 

          “Hello, Shepard,

I have a question . . . human behavior. More specifically . . . ‘dating.’ What would . . . an appropriate venue for—”

 

          Garrus’ dexterous fingers were working magic, eliciting an unwilling moan from you — in turn making him chuckle — and preventing you from reading any further. The arousal within you now was so strong it spurred you to simply link EDI to the most popular search engine in Council space before closing your omni-tool. Once that was done, you gave Garrus an impish look as you brought a hand to your jumpsuit’s zipper. This did not go unnoticed. No matter how far down your zipper went, his eyes followed, roving across your newly exposed flesh with the kind of hunger only you could stir up in him. And he was starving . . . but would remain unfed, another flash of light saw to that.

          Irritated, you opened your omni-tool again, ready to tell EDI in no uncertain terms just where she could go when instead a notification blinked up at you.

          “Buy enough supplies to feed an army. Literally. Party is tonight.”

          For five full seconds you stared at those lines, dumbstruck once more. The party was tonight? You thought it was tomorrow.

          “Well, crap,” you muttered under your breath.

          You had been putting off buying the supplies for so long, thinking you had enough time each time, and now it had finally caught up with you.

         "EDI again?” Garrus asked, hands still exploring. “I could take care of her.”

         “No . . . it’s . . .” you said, at a loss of words, before just showing him the message.

          Incredulity brought his ministrations to a halt, taking that pheromone fragrance with it.

          "Really, Shepard?” he asked after he had read it, turning to you. “The party’s tonight.”

          “I know. . . .”

          “And you know you need enough liquor to keep a miniature army drunk until tomorrow, right?”

          "I know.”

          “And that krogan are on the guest list?”

          “I _know_.”

          “And that there’s a quarian who can out-drink a kro—”

          “ _Garrus_!”

          The turian in question sighed, shaking his head with what looked like a mixture of amazement and pity.

          “How do you get yourself into these situations?” he eventually asked, mirroring your thoughts verbatim. “Actually, never mind,” he continued, separating from you and standing up. “You can tell me on the way.”

          "On the way?” you repeated, confused, as you watched him walk over to the divide between the two living rooms.

          “Yeah,” he said, stopping to turn your way and say, “the mood’s as dead as Blasto’s career — which is, incidentally, also thanks to you — so we might as well get this over with, right? It might take a few hours.”

          Zipping your suit back up and sitting up as you did it, you smiled sheepishly at Garrus. Avoiding his eyes, you said, “Sorry about this. I didn’t mean to. . . .” You trailed off.

          “It’s okay,” he replied, disappearing from view. “I hated Blasto anyway. But now you owe me another debt. And tonight I expect it to be paid back. _In full_.”

          “Count on it,” you called after him, grinning at the thought of what it might involve as you pulled up your omni-tool and jotted down the longest grocery list you’d ever seen. That smile vanished faster than you wanted to admit.

          About four or so minutes into writing the list, your peripheral vision caught Garrus’ emergence from behind the divide, fully decked out in his usual armor. It seemed he had visited the bedroom the two of you shared and thought to suit up.

          “A shame,” you remarked without looking up when he came over to you. “I was really enjoying the view.”

          He chuckled. “Yeah, well, it’s a view only you get to see.”

          "Your sheer hotness might blind the masses?” you suggested teasingly, glancing up at him.

          “You’d better believe it,” he answered similarly. “Remember, it wasn’t aerial bombardment that won the turians Shanxi, it was your kind setting eyes on mine for the first time. Lust at first sight, as the human saying goes. I think.”

          “Close enough,” you replied, chuckling, as you returned to your list, jotting down a couple of items. “But you’d better be careful talking like that in public, Vakarian, or _you_ might get an aerial bombardment.”

          “Is it still that bad?” he asked, suddenly somber.

          “Worse.”

          Garrus fell silent, a look of perplexity on his face.

          “I thought it was nice, though,” you added quickly, trying to cheer him up.

          “I do get off a good one every now and again, don’t I?” he asked quietly, mandibles flexing with pride.

         “You can say that again,” you replied, smirking as you looked your boyfriend full in the face, waiting for him to catch your meaning. It took a couple of seconds.

          “What are you . . . _oh_.” He chuckled. “Well, now that I know your mind’s in the gutter, I assume that means you’re ready to go?”

          After writing down the last thing you could think of (which was, incidentally, “omni-chiral condoms, and lots of them”), you stood up, dismissed your omni-tool, and said, “As ready as can be. And my mind is not in the gutter.”

          “Sure it’s not. . . .”

          “It’s in the _sewers_ ,” you finished, smiling, “and it’s lived there for so long it’s teenage and mutated."

          Garrus blinked a couple of times, visibly unsure what to make of your statement, before he said, “Let’s . . . let’s just go.” He made his way to the door with you trailing not too far behind, collecting his wits fast enough to add, “That’s one of the first things you learn on an op, by the way — always arrive early.”

          “Garrus,” you said, “we’re going _shopping_ not to a fricking _war zone_.”

          “Same thing, Shepard. You’ll see.”

          “Ugh, you turians are so weird.”

          “No, you humans are,” he replied, stopping in front of the door to unlock it. “But always remember I—” he cleared his throat “—get off a good one occasionally.”

         The doors swung open at the same moment your jaw dropped. Looking as innocent as criminal caught red-handed, Garrus gestured graciously for you to take the lead.

           You did, choosing to play along. “Garrus Vakarian, I now question everything you did in C-Sec. Every. Single. Thing.”

          From behind you, you heard a _click_ (the sound of Garrus locking the door), and then the turian himself saying, “Don’t you mean ‘everyone?’ It _was_ called C-Sec for a reason. . . .”

           You lived for this kind of thing.

        “You really want to challenge _me_ Vakarian?” you asked smugly, stopping to punch the button that summoned the elevator. “I’ve got stories that’ll blow your mind.”

          Garrus came to a halt beside you and leaned casually against the wall before saying, “Well, I’m sure you’ve heard where some men’s minds are. . . .”

           He did not just — _Ding_! — go there. You looked up in response to the sound. The elevator had arrived.

           “Last chance to back off big boy, I can do this all day,” you warned playfully as the two of you entered the elevator and Garrus pushed the button leading to the Silver Sun Strip.

           While the elevator doors closed, he mock-scoffed. “Give me a call when you can do it all night like me.”

           “Oh, you smug bastard. . . .” you said even as you grinned broadly. “Try me, Vakarian. _Try me_.”

           “I already did,” he purred, “and you’ve got me hooked.”

          Competitive spirit aside, you had to confess, that was a verbal trap you should have seen coming. Before you could think up a comeback, the elevator jerked into motion. For the third time that day you felt nausea overtake you, bringing with it another headache; a wince then escaped you, but not Garrus’ hawk-like eyes which came to rest on you immediately. Knowing you’d have to address it before he did, but unwilling to accept defeat, you put on your game face and joked, “So you’re hooked but I’m the one with the hangover. How is that even remotely fair?”

         Garrus’ expression changed instantly upon hearing those words, going into what you called “concerned boyfriend mode.”

          “Oh . . . right,” he said, more to himself than you, “you _did_ have a lot to drink last night. . . .”

            “ _And y_ _ou didn’t stop me_?” you practically exploded, forgetting your façade. “Didn’t 2185 teach you _anything_ , Vakarian?”

          “Well . . . be reasonable, Shepard—” his mandibles twitched “—you threatened to bend me over with your biotics and make me fuck myself raw if I laid a hand on your liquor. What was I supposed to do?”

           “Enjoy it, what else?” was your sarcastic response.

           _Honestly_ , you thought, exasperated, _how can he even take a threat like that seriously_?

           In his defense, you did recall a couple of times when you had actually acted on your whimsical threats. Like that one time where—

           The elevator lurched, cranking down to a lower speed, but that sudden movement was enough to get your stomach to threaten spilling its contents on the ground again. Groaning, you closed your eyes and leaned against the wall, taking deep breaths. You liked to think it helped. Maybe it did.

          After the third or so breath, you felt a hand come to rest on your shoulder and heard Garrus ask, softly, “Hey . . . [Name] . . . how’s your head?”

           You opened your eyes, setting them on him. That sounded like an apology, or as close to one as you’d get. As you weren’t really angry with him, and your head was back in the game, you couldn’t help but answer thusly:

          “I haven’t had any complaints yet.”

           Silence. Then, Garrus withdrew his hand, muttering, “Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. . . .”

         To that rhetorical question you tried to give an innocent smile — which came out more like an arrogant smirk — knowing all the while you had won this round of repartee in the most underhanded way possible. His sullen silence confirmed it and several seconds passed before either of you spoke again.

           “Hey,” Garrus said, snapping a finger. “I just realized something.”

           “What?” you asked, half-expecting another joke.

           “You never did drink your coffee.”

           Your brow furrowed as you remembered the mug still sitting on the counter. It was too late to go back and get it now, though.

         _Too bad_ , you thought.

          You really did like that brand. . . . Then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea struck you as the elevator doors fled into their predestined hideaways. Who said you couldn’t just get another?

         “Before we go empty a store's liquor aisle, how about we race to the coffee shop?” you suggested, turning to Garrus. “It’ll be quick. And the loser’s got to pay.”

           Much to your surprise Garrus wasn’t on board.

         “Shepard, we’re not children,” he admonished in a holier-than-thou voice. “What’ll we look like, two famous thirty-somethings running around the Silver Sun Strip? The media would have a field day.”

           Your hopes deflated right there. He _was_ right. . . .

          “And besides,” he continued, “you’re paying when I win.”

           With no more warning than that, Garrus dashed off with surprising speed for a turian wearing such heavy armor.

         Shock left you standing still, wide-eyed and mouth agape, before you collected your wits and sprinted after him, shouting creative taunts (mostly about the things you were going to make him do in bed) that left more than a few passersby with raised eyebrows. You didn’t care. If you only had one day like this in your entire lifetime, then you were going to enjoy it to the fullest — everyone else be damned.

          It didn’t turn out quite the way you hoped. With the kind of head start he had, Garrus ended up winning the race and you ended up paying for both his coffee and yours. He did make it up to you later after the shopping trip by treating you to lunch at a dextro-and-levo-friendly restaurant on the Presidium, though . . . but only after he made you promise not to blow it up, of course.

          _Of course_ , you thought sarcastically.

          Later that night came the party. It was a blast, sometimes literally, that you wished could go on forever. It couldn’t, of course, but you supposed that wasn’t such a bad thing when, towards the end, you _somehow_ ended up alone with Garrus in the bedroom. That is when you repaid that debt you owed him many times over before falling asleep in his embrace (and waking up the next morning wondering what a wasted Javik was doing on the floor nearby).

         It’s for these reasons that, not three days later when you laid there under the rubble, gasping, struggling for each excruciating breath after making the hardest choice in your life, this strange day stuck out to you as a diamond in the rough. The happiest you’d ever had, from start to finish.

          No regrets. None.

          And seeing as your adventures together didn’t stop there? Well, that’s a story for another time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, just between you and me and every other person who's reading this, there's an obscure reference towards the end of the story. If anyone can catch it I'll . . . uh . . . love that person forever? Would that suffice?


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